I am a blue guitar. Listen
and I will play like a blind man,
lapcradling anonymous chords:
the root of addiction, the minor
key a variation on loss, the major
collapse of the world into harmonics:
Twinkling eyes, the sky’s starlings,
calling. The wall of sound
whirls about and some wings are lost
to high powerlines or muted
in collisions with buildings. I pick
with denuded quills,
my voice sundered
into a thousand throats
swollen with stones
to grind down the words,
spitting out harmony as grist.
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